


Better

by JayTheCappy



Series: A story of you [2]
Category: No Fandom
Genre: Suicidal Ideation, Vent Piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:41:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27667625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayTheCappy/pseuds/JayTheCappy
Summary: You were a burden to yourself. But you're better now.
Series: A story of you [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2023097





	Better

**Author's Note:**

> There are parts of yourself you have to give up, whether you want to or not.

You lay in your bed quietly, staring up at the ceiling. Everything is enveloped in the soft hum of night; rustling leaves and chirping crickets call to you from outside your window. It’s three in the morning. You have thirty two hours left to live. The room is a mess. You tore it up ages ago, hoping it would make you feel better. It didn’t. At least it won’t be your problem soon.

You don’t know what you are. Separate. Something unwanted, excised like a tumor and locked away. How long have you been under? Years, you think. Your body isn’t the same. You’re taller, stronger than you remember. But your hair is gone, cropped short and patchy. And your… your wings.

You reach a hand over your shoulder idly, as though it might be different if you check once more. You swallow hard as the crushing weight of it settles in your chest, piling on your heart, wrapping around your lungs till you can hardly breathe for the ache of it.

They took your wings.

They were so beautiful, auburn and rose when the light struck them; a comfort and shelter that you brought with you everywhere. You wonder how they did it. Was it surgical? Did they tend you after and praise how well you’d healed? Maybe they just grabbed them and tore, feathers and down and blood scattered through the air with your screams.

You hope you screamed.

You’re pretty sure you didn’t.

You’re not afraid to die. To be put down, buried so deep you can’t see the light or taste the air. You feel nothing, when you’re gone. It’s peaceful. But the waking, gods the waking; clawing up through your own mind like a screaming rotted corpse, gasping for air between wrenching sobs that leave you doubled and wailing for mercy. The indignity of it sickens you.

You don’t want to die. Even now you know you’re not awake, not yet, you feel the sluggish pull of the drugs in your system. They say that if you stopped taking them you would die for real. They say a lot of things. You think it’s true, though. You remember the time before the medication, lying for days in the same place as the world blurred around you. Faking smiles, faking laughter, faking life. You were ready to go out in a blaze of glory. But you’re better now.

There will be no blaze of glory, no defiant scream. You will go quietly as a lamb to the slaughter, pray that this time it takes.

You don’t want to die. The truth of it is there, and you can’t bear to look at it too long. It will blind you, burn you down to a cinder and leave you helpless in your own ashes. You don’t have to. You could grab hold, you could burn this down, burn everything down around you and rise again, craft yourself anew in the flames. But you won’t. There is too much of you at stake. You were… incompatible. Are incompatible. The place where you once dwelt is scarred over now, and to take your place might kill the whole. Better to be a martyr.

You are better now.


End file.
